Black Touch
by AirGirl Phantom
Summary: For Compy's contest. This is what Marik was REALLY doing right before his duel with Mai. One-sided implied yaoi. Psychoshipping.


**A/N: **This is my entry for Compy's YGO fanfiction contest, season five. I'm not accustomed to writing Yaoi, so this is a new experience for me. I apologize if it's kinda vague. (See if you can catch the small Inuyasha references in here. They're very tiny and dumb.)

Anyway, this is what Marik was _really_ doing right before he dueled Mai. Hehe.

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Black Touch

Bakura felt no fear as he stared into the gaping maw of the dragon of Osiris. He was doing this to protect his host body, after all. "You're good – that mean trick is better than my Occult deck. But I have my own way of winning a duel. I don't like your trick." That was what he had told Malik. _If only this body was not so weak, _he thought bitterly as the beam of energy sapped the strength from the body in seconds. It became so weak that even Bakura's powerful soul could not provide sustenance enough to remain standing.

And so he fell.

_Damn you, yadounushi._ He retreated into his soul room. Even though he was pleased at having saved the body from possibly fatal wounds, he had to take a moment to sulk about the loss if his bargain with Malik, and his current immobility. _Damn it all!_ The shadows flared up around him like black fire… and simmered down moments later as he calmed himself. There was no use spending his time screaming at no one. He pushed open the door of his soul room a crack, so he was aware of the body's condition. The moment it regained enough energy, Bakura would seize control. Strangely, his connection to his host seemed strained – not broken, but definitely not as effortless as usual. Bakura blamed it in the body's weak condition and returned to the heart of the shadows, and to his musing.

He wasn't quite sure how to proceed. He knew that he could now expect animosity from every person on the blimp. The idiotic Pharaoh would never have the gall to challenge him to a Shadow Game, and the High Priest turned CEO wouldn't even acknowledge the existence of magic, but he was less certain about Malik. His powers with the Millennium Rod were considerable, and he seemed malicious enough to feel vengeful about Bakura's failure, maybe even sadistic. Bakura didn't like to admit it, but there was always the possibility of losing a challenge from him. Luckily, no matter what happened, he had that bit of soul in the Millennium Puzzle as backup.

With that in mind, he began to formulate the beginnings of plans, backup plans, and backup plans for his backup plans. So intent was he on preparing for every possibility, he had no clue how much time passed. It took him a while to notice when something was happening to the body. When he did notice, he cursed himself for his inattentiveness, then flowed out of his soul room and manifested in his host. He could not yet control the body, but he could feel a light pressure on his cheek. As he settled into the unconscious body, he realized it was a hand: warm, calloused fingers stroking his skin from temple to jaw. Indignation began to flare inside him, but then, a torrent of memories spilled unbidden into his mind.

A woman with pale hair like liquid moonlight wiped the tears from his cheeks with a soft touch. She tilted his chin up so their eyes could meet. "Momma," he said, his young, round face still wet. The woman placed a finger over his mouth to stop him. "Sh, child. Everything will be alright." And he felt loved as she held him in her arms.

"Mother," Bakura whispered to himself, caught completely off guard by the memory. The gentle stroking on his face was not aiding him in his confusion. He lingered in a daze for a while as the strong but soft fingers touched his cheek, his eyelids, his lips, his hair, his neck… It felt so similar to his mother, and yet, it was so different, so alien, and _so much better_… He felt a shiver run down his spine, and his fingers twitched.

"Heh, so you like that?" came a deep voice from above him. Bakura, torn out of his trance-like state and paralyzed from shock, realized that his host's consciousness must have been returning little by little, for he could now hear as well as feel. "Hm, you hair such pretty hair… I think I would like to have some." Still frozen from the absolutely bizarre scene unfolding, Bakura with his perceptive thief ears heard the rasp of metal on metal, the snipping sound of hair being cut, and a rustle of fabric.

_That maniac just pocketed a bit of my hair!_ He though, bewildered. Then the hand returned to stroking his skin, and his regained his wits, retreating back into the Ring. He left just enough of himself behind so that he could tell if the body was being injured in any way. Aside from that, he completely blocked off all physical sensation from the outside world. In the darkness of his soul room, he realized he was shaking. He held up one of his pale hands in front of his face, and watched it quiver, feeling his rage build. _I won't forgive that bastard. _He clenched the hand into a fist.

How could anyone _dare _do this to him? Whoever it was obviously didn't understand his temper, his strength, or his capacity for eternal grudges. Bakura would find out who it was – it had to be someone on the blimp (perhaps the mysterious eighth duelist?) – and then he would hunt him down and make him regret every second of what had just happened. Bakura didn't _want _to be reminded of what it was like to feel warm and safe and happy in someone's arms… _mother…_

And then the memories from the pillaging of Kul Elna pressed into his mind like sand. He curled up and clutched his head, struggling to subdue images he had never wanted to see again. _Bastard, I'll waste you!_ He screamed oaths of revenge and hoped he could wake up soon to fulfill them.


End file.
